last night at an l.a. bar

Last night, I was at a bar having a nice conversation with two female friends when an overzealous bald man suddenly shoved himself between them, chided them for taking too long with drink orders, and then tried flirting.

Turned off, they claimed to be lesbians, but he was undeterred. I knew I had to help.

"Actually they really are lesbians," I said. "In fact, they're legally married in the state of Massachusetts."

"Boston?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "So they must be Irish?"

"Sure," I told him. "Yeah probably. I think they're Irish."

At that, the overzealous bald man recalibrated all of his flirtacious conversation around the axis of their "Irish." To bad they weren't Irish.

"You are so Irishy."

They laugh as if he's crazy. And he slinks away, his soul overflowing with with defeat and confusion.

A few minutes later, a different man tries to pick up women with his "I got hit by a city bus and nearly died" story:

"There the benches flew right out of the bus," he says. "They were everywhere...I'm just so thankful...If it wasn't for one landing on my lap...I probably wouldn't be here right now."

I note that his bus gambit is working and that an empathetic blond has gently wrapped her arm around him, and I realize that I've learned something. A new-found appreciation for life brought about by near tragedy is the sort of story that we can all relate to, and sometimes being hit by a bus can be the fastest way to hitch a ride on the train of love...even if we're not Irish.